


Better Late Than Never

by Synekdokee



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Eventual Smut, Fluff, Human AU, M/M, Office Romance, Sickfic, Slow Burn, Softness, holiday fic, lonely boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-09-29 14:42:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17205311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synekdokee/pseuds/Synekdokee
Summary: “Don’t worry. Mr. Anderson looks scary, but-” she pauses, scrunching her nose up. “Alright, Hank can be a bit scary, but he’s pretty down-to-earth. Stay out of his way and he’ll forget about the fact that you tried to hit on him on your first day.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my trusty beta RedxLuna. 
> 
> And thank you to @chococo_mao on Twitter who's pretty much responsible for the pen scene.
> 
> Originally birthed in my Twitter thread: https://twitter.com/SynTurtle/status/1076052897446723584

“Well, all I can say is we’d love to have you.”

Connor beams. “Really? Oh, that’s- wonderful, thank you!” He offers Mr. Manfred his hand, and they shake on it.

“How soon can you start?”

“Monday,” Connor says enthusiastically.

Mr Manfred nods, offering him a pleased smile. “That’s perfect for us. I’m your team manager, but really the whole department answers to Hank Anderson, he’s the CFO. I’ll introduce you on monday during your orientation.”

 

Connor sprints through the lobby, his wet shoes slipping on the polished marble.

“Hold the elevator! Please, hold-”

A man with a grey ponytail and a beard sticks his hand between the doors, and puts himself in Connor’s trajectory when he trips over the threshold and right into the man’s chest. Connor fumbles himself upright, the man’s arms around his sides firm, pushing him to his feet.

“You alright, kid?” The man asks, and Connor straightens his damp clothes, blowing his cowlick out of his eye.

“Yes, thank yo- oh no, my umbrella,” he groans, covering his face with his palm. “I must’ve left it on the bus,” he tells the man, pointlessly. The man gives him a tight-lipped smile, and Connor blushes with embarrassment.

A woman steps into the elevator and presses the same floor Connor is heading to, and they begin the ride up.

“It’s my first day,” Connor says to the man, trying to cover the awkward silence. “My car broke down and I had to take two buses so I wouldn’t be late.”

The man hums, glancing at him from the corner of his eye.

“But at least I got swept off my feet by a tall, handsome stranger,” Connor says, and immediately wants to swallow his tongue and sink through the floor of the elevator. He lets out an awkward laugh, and the man gives him a slightly amused but pitying look. Connor stares at the doors, willing them to open and let him out.

The woman steps off first, and Connor turns to the man. “Well. Next time we should get coffee,” he says with a forced laugh, and then ducks out, face red, and starts heading towards Mr Manfred as soon as he spots his desk.

He hears footsteps follow him, and with dread he turns around.

The man from the elevator is standing behind him, hands in his suit pockets, wearing a smirk.

“You must be Connor,” the man says, and then offers Connor his hand.

“Hank Anderson.”

“Oh, no,” Connor whispers, shaking the offered hand. His boss’s grin only widens.

“Oh, Connor,” Mr Manfred says, walking up to them and shaking Connor’s hand in turn. “I see you already met Mr. Anderson.”

“We met on the elevator,” Mr. Anderson says, smiling like a shark.

Connor makes a sound, his face on fire. He realises what a pathetic picture he makes, looking like a wet rat, clothes in disarray.

“I got caught in the storm,” he says apologetically, and Mr. Manfred laughs, waving it off.

“Don’t worry about it. Let me give you the tour and then North here will show you the ropes.”

He motions to a woman perched on a desk. The woman from the elevator. She gives him a little wave, grinning.

“Great,” Connor says, hoping for the ground to swallow him up.

 

The office is large and modern, the cubicles more spacious than Connor expected, with efficient sound-dampening. Mr. Manfred shows him the copiers, the conference rooms and the break room, furnished with shiny cabinets and wooden countertops and eco-friendly and silent appliances. It’s a step-up from having to eat his lunch in his car.

“Mr. Anderson’s office it at the end there,” Mr. Manfred says, pointing. The frosted glass door is closed, but Connor can see someone pacing inside.

They eventually circle back to the cubicles, and Mr. Manfred shows him an empty one, with Connor’s name tag on the barren desk.

“And this is you. North will come over soon to get you set up. Come find me after lunch and we’ll set up your contract.”

“Thank you, Mr. Manfred,” Connor smiles, setting his bag on the floor.

“Oh, God, call me Markus,” Mr. Manfred says. “Mr. Manfred is my dad, and he might no longer be active in the company, but the title is still reserved to him.”

“Thank you, Markus,” Connor says politely, and Markus smiles, patting him on the shoulder.

“You’ll be fine. Let me know if you need anything.”

 

North wanders over once Connor is settled. She draws up an extra chair and manages to sprawl on it despite her pencil skirt and silk blouse, and she leans her elbow on Connor’s desk, propping her chin in her hand.

“So, Connor. Made quite the first impression,” she grins, and Connor feels his face grow hot all over again.

“I’m sure I’ll be gone by the end of the day, so you probably shouldn’t waste too much time on me.”

North laughs, tossing her braid back.

“Don’t worry. Mr. Anderson looks scary, but-” she pauses, scrunching her nose up. “Alright, Hank can be a bit scary, but he’s pretty down-to-earth. Stay out of his way and he’ll forget about the fact that you tried to hit on him on your first day.”

“I didn’t- I was just making a joke,” Connor says, aware that he’s sounding a little whiny. “I get stupid when I’m flustered,” he mutters.

“Well, you made it through three rounds of interviews for a pretty prestigious company, so I’m sure they’ll let it slide this once,” North says, nudging at his ribs. It makes him feel a little better, and soon they settle into going through the work roster. By the time North is prepared to leave him alone, he’s feeling more confident, knowing that for all his other missteps, he’s good at what he does.

“You learn quick,” North says, sounding pleased. “If you need anything, just ask me.”

She points to the cubicle next to Connor’s, currently empty.

“Do not ask Reed. He’s not exactly a team player, and he’s uh.” She hesitates. “There are some bad habits he has that you don’t want to learn. He does a good job, but-” she stops, clearly not willing to put herself on the line by disparaging a colleague.

“Anyway, just send me an IM or ask literally _anyone_ else around here.”

 

Connor settles into the routine quickly. He likes the work, and most of his coworkers are happy to help him and welcome him.

He doesn’t run into Mr. Anderson again until Wednesday, when he’s getting his lunch from the fridge. His boss is standing in front of the coffee machine, muttering swears under his breath. Connor tries to sneak in and out without being seen, but Anderson turns and spots him.

“Hello again,” Anderson says, leaning his hip against the counter and crossing his arms. “Settling in well?”

To his credit there’s nothing but sincerity in his voice, and Connor relaxes a little.

“Yes, thank you. Everyone’s very nice,” he says, and then he finds his eyes drawn down. Down. To a patch of pale hair on the black of Anderson’s slacks, on his upper thigh.

“My eyes are up here, kid,” Anderson says coolly, and Connor startles.

“Oh, no, no, I’m sorry, it’s just-” he’s painfully aware that he’s flushing again in front of his boss, and points vaguely. “You’ve got hair.”

“What.” Anderson looks down and spots the hairball, and starts to pick at it. “Ahh, Christ, Sumo,” he grumbles, wiping at his thigh and tossing the fur in the garbage. “It’s my damn dog,” he explains, and Connor perks up.

“You have a dog? I’m- I’d love one myself, they’re so therapeutic- not that I need therapy or anything,” he laughs, and then feels like he’s misstepped. “Not that there’s anything bad with therapy.”

Mr Anderson gives him a bemused look, and turns to the coffee machine. He takes his cup, peers in, and then dumps it in the sink with a frustrated sigh. Black sludge oozes out.

Connor fidgets. “Ah. About the elevator thing,” he says, and Anderson turns to even him a look.

“Don’t worry about it. None of us are at our best on our first day,” he says dismissively, and Connor bristles. He’s usually at his best, except when he’s nervous.

“I just hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable. I don’t exactly make a habit of hitting on my superiors,” he says, self-deprecating. And then he adds. “Not that I hit on anyone else! Or, I mean, obviously, sometimes, but at work, I mean. I don’t flirt with people at work. Not that you’re not, I mean you’re-” he’s doing it again and he can’t stop, his heart pounding a mile a minute and his mind racing about as fast.

“Connor,” Anderson interrupts, his tone calm but firm. Connor stops, staring at him helplessly.

“Anyone ever tell you you have a nervous mouth?”

Connor deflates. “Yes,” he says miserably, and Anderson laughs, patting him on the back.

“Take it easy before you sprain something,” his boss says, and leaves him standing alone in the kitchen.

Oddly enough, he feels a little better.

 

On Thursday he meets Reed.

Reed arrives in a whirlwind of curses and wet snow piled on his shoulders, dumping himself in the cubicle next to Connor’s. He wheels his chair back to look at him up and down, and then sneers.

“New guy, huh? Hope you’re not a talker,” Reed says. Connor shakes his head, and Reed nods.

“Good. Fucking can’t stand talkers. Just let me do my job in peace,” he grumbles, and wheels himself behind the partition again.

“Nice to meet you too,” Connor mutters quietly, going back to his Exel.

He makes the mistake of asking Reed about the specifics of the upcoming deadline, and gets a scathing look in return.

“It’s in the email, prick,” Reed says scathingly, and Connor raises his eyebrows.

North walks over and smacks Reed over the back of his head.

“You don’t have to be such a colossal asshole,” she snaps, and then turns to look at Connor. “I warned you,” she says, before turning on her heel and walking back to her cubicle.

 

They have their first team meeting at the end of the month, and Anderson joins them. Connor arrives first, always punctual, with a cup of coffee.

Anderson is sprawled in the seat at the end of the table, peering at his phone over his reading glasses. Connor mumbles a greeting, averting his eyes from the way Anderson’s suit stretches over his broad chest and thick thighs. He doesn’t need to make an even bigger fool of himself than he already has.

Markus leads the meeting efficiently, Anderson apparently content to sit and listen, unlike some bosses Connor has had who always had the need to lead. Connor steals looks at him over the rim of his coffee cup, taking in the man’s strong profile and body built like something just made for Connor to climb.

He kicks himself internally, shaking off the inappropriate thoughts. He hates meetings, has never been good at concentrating in them, but day dreaming about your boss never leads to anything constructive.

“Obviously the numbers aren’t alarming, but we need to hike them up before the quarterly to keep the shareholders happy,” Anderson says suddenly, and Connor starts, looking at the slide on the screen.

“So if anyone has any ideas…” Anderson rumbles, and Connor lifts his hand, looking around hesitantly. Anderson pins him with a look.

“Ah, I was comparing our stats to previous years, and I noticed that the company growth this year has been-” he cuts himself off, scared of going off on a tangent again. “What I mean is, the sales floor is still operating to the old paradigms, which means they have less time to work on the new leads. Perhaps some sort of a, ah, ‘task force’ could tackle the new leads, do a preliminary check on viable ones, and then spread them out to sales.” He fiddles with his pen. “That way hopefully the accounts would reach our department at a faster rate.”

He looks uncertainly at Anderson and Markus. Markus makes an approving face, and Anderson nods.

“The new task force should have reps from the other teams so they can synergise the best,” he says impassively, and Connor’s not entirely sure if he’s being mocked. “Email me what you have,” Anderson adds. “I’ll look it over.”

“Oh, I don’t really have…” Connor trails off, but Markus is already moving on.

 

When he meeting ends, Anderson stops him on the way out.

“Good job, Connor,” he says, and Connor beams at him as he leaves.

“Suck up,” Reed mutters, brushing past him.

Connor spends the rest of the day frantically drawing up something to present to his boss, in addition to completing his assigned workload. He ends up going into overtime by a lot, and when he’s finally done it’s already closer to six.

Panicked, he peers past his cubicle, relieved to see the light still on in Mr. Anderson’s office.

He knocks on the glass door, and then opens it slowly.

“Mr. Anderson?”

His boss looks up from his computer, gesturing him in.

“Overtime in your first month?” He says, glancing at the watch on his wrist.

“I have the file on that sales realignment,” Connor says, taking a seat across Anderson’s desk.

Anderson gets a pinched look on his face. “Oh, for fuck’s-” he coughs, and looks chagrined.

“I didn’t mean _today_ , Connor,” he says, sounding a little exasperated.

“Oh,” Connor says, feeling stupid as he perches in the chair.

Anderson sighs and then makes a “gimme” motion with his hand. “Alright, let’s take a look.”

Connor sits quietly while Anderson reads. He gives Connor a look under his brows every now and then, and Connor tries not to fidget too much. Finally Anderson puts the file down, leaning back in his chair.

Connor shifts.

“Obviously it’s only a suggestion, I haven’t really been here long enough to know-”

Anderson cuts him off. “If we follow this,” he says, jabbing his finger against the file, “we’d need to recruit more people in sales.”

Connor’s face reddens. “Well, yes. But any growing company-” he stops, biting his lip.

“But you know all that, as the CFO,” he says quietly.

Anderson gives him a shark-like smile. “I do. And I agree. I also agree with what you included about added commission bonuses. You have to break a few eggs to make an omelette,” he drawls.

Connor sits up, eager. “I think it’d be good for our floor, and the company,” he says earnestly, and Anderson smiles.

“Did you come up with this today?” Anderson asks, tapping the file.

“Mostly,” Connor shrugs. “I’ve had the idea for a while now, but it’s not really my area and I didn’t want to step on any toes.”

“Next time you have ideas like this, I’m ordering you to stomp on every toe you can on your way to Markus or me,” Anderson says, standing up. Connor scrambles to his feet, and lets Anderson lead him to the door.

“You haven’t even been here for a month yet and you’ve left a great impression on me,” Anderson says, and Connor flushes with pleasure.

“Hitting on your boss notwithstanding,” Anderson adds, tone joking.

“If I’d known you were my boss I would’ve at least called you sir,” Connor blurts out, unthinking, and then, before Anderson can fire him, he ducks out the door, his gut sinking as he curses himself and his anxious mouth in his head.

 

 

 

 

Hank keeps an eye on Connor. The kid has a mouth that’ll eventually land him in trouble, but oddly enough it only seems to go off around Hank. He’s lost track of how many times Connor has gone off on tangents or rambling non-sequiturs around him. The questionable remarks have stopped, fortunately for them both, because there’s only so much Hank can handle without involving HR.

He still thinks he’s going crazy sometimes. Connor keeps - looking at him, subtle glances and bashful smiles that are driving Hank up a wall. He’s sure he’s imagining it, but it only makes him feel even more like a dirty old man, because he’d be lying if he claimed he hasn’t noticed how pretty Connor is. He wanders around the office like some doe-eyed thing from the fashion runways, and that would be fine with Hank. Except that the kid is goddamn sharp, too sharp to remain long in his current position, Hank is sure.

Unless he works himself to an early grave.

He watches Connor from the break room door. Kid must be on his sixth cup of coffee of the day, and the circles under his eyes only seem to grow darker by the day. The whole floor is in a minor frenzy, crunching for a deadline that keeps inching closer, but Connor’s overtime has reached alarming numbers.

“Connor, when you have a moment come see me,” he says as he walks past Connor’s desk, and gets such a terrified look in return that he almost feels bad.

“Someone’s in trouble,” he hears Reed mutter, and pauses long enough to give him a withering glare. Reed ducks his head down and shuts his mouth.

 

“Sir?” Connor says from the door, and Hank gestures him inside.

“Take a seat, I want to talk to you about your project.”

Connor looks like a deer in headlights. He sits down slowly, clutching some papers that he slides in front of Hank.

“I know we’re lagging behind,” he says, voice strained. “I’m- we’re all working hard to catch up-”

Hank puts up his hand and scoots close the desk.

“I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about _you_ ,” he says, giving Connor a look under his brows.

Connor stares, looking like he’s ready to bolt. “I guarantee you, I’m doing the best I can.”

Hank blinks at him, and then drags a hand across his face.

“I didn’t call you in to criticise you, Connor,” he says slowly. “I called you in because I suspect you’re picking up other people’s slack and working yourself to the damn ground.”

Connor’s mouth parts, and Hank tries not to stare too hard at his pink lips.

“I’m. I’m not, we’re all working hard-”

“Connor, I’ve lead enough departments to know when someone’s pulling more than their weight. You can’t work like this. You’ll end up with burnout.” He sighs. “Not to mention the overtime is going to bankrupt us,” he mutters. At least it gets a weak laugh from Connor.

“I admire your work ethic,” Hank continues, leaning back in his chair. “But if someone in your team isn’t doing their job, or the quality of their work is causing you to spend valuable work time on fixing things, I need to know.”

Connor looks away, that tell-tale blush creeping up his face again. It’s fetching to look at, but it’s also a sure sign that the kid is uncomfortable.

“This isn’t a charity,” Hank says sternly. “If my staff is slacking off-”

“No one’s slacking off,” Connor says suddenly, and his whole frame is so tense Hank almost calls him out on being such a shitty liar.

Hank lets the silence settle in over them. Connor avoids his eyes and Hank wants to see how long until he breaks.

Connor’s teeth dig into his bottom lip, and Hank exhales, taking the file Connor has set on the desk.

“Alright. You’re excused,” he says, opening the folder and pretending to read it. He’s acutely aware of Connor’s hesitation before he finally gets up and returns to his desk.

Connor leaves on time that day, but next day by noon he’s looking even more haggard, and Hank even overhears him get mouthy with Reed.

He talks to Markus about it, but Markus is as helpless as he is. Neither of them wants to force Connor to talk, not if it requires damaging the trust between them.

So Hank doesn’t comment on Connor’s overtime anymore.

One evening he’s preparing to leave, to go home to his dog and his whiskey, and he sees Connor still hunched over his desk. He shrugs off his coat with a sigh and heads out of his office, stopping next to Connor.

“Alright, that’s enough,” he says wearily, and Connor jumps, looking up at him.

“Sir?”

“Grab those folders and come into my office. I’ll help.”

“I really don’t think that’s necessary, I’m sure you have more important-”

“Now,” Hank snaps, turning around and stomping back to his desk. Kid needs to grow a damn backbone, he thinks as Connor scrambles after him.

 

After Connor’s initial reluctance, they settle into a companionable silence. Connor brings in his laptop, and they shuffle the paper folders between them when the need rises to cross-compare numbers or accounts.

The work mostly in silence, surrounded by the strange, muted silence of an after-hours office. There’s something intimate about it, Hank thinks, glancing at Connor who’s hunched over his laptop. It’s just the two of them, and occasionally Hank can hear the cold November winds whistle outside through the high-rise’s corners.

The cleaners arrive, and one of the ladies finally enters Hank’s office and huffs at them as she reaches around Hank for the paper basket. They earn themselves a glare when she starts to vacuum around them, and Connor looks up, giving Hank a grin, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

“Alright, time for a break,” Hank says, and they duck out of the office and into the break room, Hank letting out a huff of a laugh as his office door is slammed shut behind them, muting the sound of the vacuum cleaner.

Connor stands by his side while he tries to operate the coffee machine, and eventually gives a frustrated noise and wedges himself between Hank and the counter.

Hank pulls back as though burned, his neck heating up at the fleeting brush of Connor’s back against his chest. He clears his throat, crossing his arms.

“Never can get the damn thing to work,” he grumbles, and from the way Connor’s face is angled he can just see the rise of a smile on his cheek.

“You have to show them respect,” Connor says, pressing a few buttons. The machine hisses and begins to pour out hot coffee, and Hank lets out a soft groan.

Connor turns to offer him a cup, and Hank can’t quite look away from his face. Even with the dark circles under his eyes, the kid is unbearably cute. Hank hasn’t had meaningful relationships since his divorce, but he finds himself desperately wanting to touch Connor’s cheek, his jaw, his full lips.

He swallows and steps back, taking a drink of his coffee.

“This is better than I’ve ever gotten out of that machine,” he frowns, feeling a little embarrassed.

Connor laughs softly, leaning back against the counter, one hand braced on the formica. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and Hank damps down the urge to wrap his hand around one of his exposed wrists. Connor isn’t dainty by any means, but Hank bets he’d feel small against him. He swallows down the guilt welling inside him - he can think it, he just can’t act on it.

“If I start bringing you coffee, can I get a raise?” Connor asks, smiling, one dimple prominent on his cheek.

Hank scoffs, taking another sip. “You keep at what you’re doing and you’ll get a promotion in no time,” he says casually, and Connor’s face flushes with obvious pleasure.

“Just don’t work yourself to the ground,” Hank adds, giving him a pointed look.

Connor shifts, his shoulders tensing for a moment before he sighs, relaxing.

“I guess one of my faults really is that I work too hard,” he says, offering Hank a lopsided grin. “I’m a walking cliché.” He shrugs, something self-deprecating about his expression.

“Nothing bad with a good work ethic,” Hank grunts, reaching past Connor for the sugar. Their arms brush, and Connor doesn’t shift.

“Just make sure you get the credit you deserve. You’re still young, maybe you haven’t realised how willing people are to let others take the fall for them.”

Connor’s face scrunches up in a way Hank finds terribly endearing.

“This isn’t my first rodeo,” Connor says, tone a little petulant. “I just hate other people’s mistakes reflecting badly on the company. I want this project done on time.”

Hank raises his eyebrows, impressed by Connor’s dedication. He’s unused to seeing it from most of his staff, at least on this level. He tries not to psychoanalyse, but he can’t help but wonder what it says about Connor that he’s so willing to spend all of his nights at work.

“You should leave some time for socialising,” he says carefully, watching Connor.

Connor bites his lip and looks away, shifting uncomfortably.

 _Kid wears his heart on his sleeve_ , Hank thinks with amusement.

“Not much for socialising,” Connor admits, finally meeting Hank’s eyes.

A moment of silence passes between them, and then Hank shrugs one shoulder. “Well, stones and glass houses,” he says easily. “Aside from the weeks I have my son, the time I don’t spend here is spent with my shedding dog.”

Connor gives him a surprised look. “You have a son?”

Hank doesn’t miss the way his eyes dart to Hank’s left hand, as though to verify Hank’s lack of a wedding band.

Hank hums, stirring his coffee. “He’s seven. We co-parent,” he says, and Connor nods.

“You don’t share much about yourself,” Connor says, and then bites his lip, looking sheepish. “Sorry. I understand it’s not-”

 Hank waves his hand dismissively. “It’s fine. And you’re right, I tend to keep a healthy distance between myself and the staff,” he says. “I’ve noticed most people don’t want their superior acting like their friend. And the higher up the ladder you are, the less they want it.”

“Sounds lonely,” Connor says, almost absently, and then actually covers his mouth with his hand.

Hank wonders if he should start keeping a tally of how often the kid blushes around him.

He laughs, reaching to pull Connor’s hand down. He lets his fingers drag across the cotton of the shirt covering his elbow, just for a moment. It’s not inappropriate, he tells himself. Just friendly, and maybe he’s a little tired.

“Calm down. You might be right. But I suspect I’m saving myself from a lot of headaches by not making myself quite as approachable,” he smirks.

Connor frowns. “I think you’re quite nice,” he says, so earnest Hank can’t help but huff out a laugh.

“That’s because you’ve had the good sense to not be incompetent around me.”

Connor grins, preening a little. Christ, the kid is adorable.

They stand and drink their coffees until they hear the cleaners leave, silence descending on them again. Hank sighs.

“Alright. An hour more, at most, and then we’re both leaving,” he says with determination. He goes to finish his coffee, and perhaps the twelve-hour work day is catching up to him, because some of it ends up spilled on his chest.

“Ah, Christ,” he mutters, setting his mug down and reaching for the paper towels.

Connor, once again acting without thinking, is quicker. He’s got a napkin in his hand and starts dabbing at Hank’s shirt with a frown on his face, and something viceral jolts through Hank as he stands, frozen in place for a few precious seconds, staring down at the kid.

Then he grabs Connor’s wrist, stilling his hand.

Connor stops, face jolting up to stare at Hank, lips parted with surprise and his brown eyes wide.

“Oh,” he says softly, his blush spreading to his neck. Hank wonders if it continues under the white of his shirt, staining his shoulders and chest.

“Sorry,” Connor adds, taking a step back. Hank lets go of his wrist, but neither of them looks away. Connor licks his lips, the tip of his pink tongue darting out quickly, and that’s when Hank shakes himself from his daze.

“It’ll wash off,” he says gruffly, striding to the door. There’s a pause, and then he hears Connor follow him. He tries to ignore the thrum of arousal sitting low in his gut.

The tension back in his office is palpable and uncomfortable, and Hank finds it impossible to concentrate.

Connor seems to have no such issues - he goes straight back to work, though he’s hunched so low behind his laptop Hank wonders if he’s hiding.

Eventually exhaustion wears away the awkwardness. Hank has his forehead propped up in one hand, elbow resting on his desk as he goes through a contract. He reaches for his pen, fumbling blindly around the strewn papers.

“Hey, lend me your-” he looks up to address Connor, and chokes on a groan.

Connor’s sprawled back in his chair, boneless, his legs spread wide as he eyes a paper in his hand, arm draped around the back of his seat.

His other hand is holding a pen. The end of which is resting against his plump bottom lip, silver against pink, pressing lightly on the soft flesh.

“...pen,” Hank finishes, aware of how weak his voice sounds.

Connor looks to him and blinks, slowly. Then his eyes flicker down to his hand holding the pen to his mouth, and he has the nerve to blush again, much to Hank’s consternation.

“S-sure, here,” he stutters, sitting up properly and nearly fumbling the pen before handing it to Hank.

“Thanks,” Hank mumbles, dragging his gaze back to his work.

He can feel Connor watching him for a while before the kid goes back to shuffling his papers around. The tension in Hank’s shoulders never goes away, constantly aware of every move Connor makes opposite him.

In the end Hank gives up, closing the folder he’s working on with a sigh.

“I think it’s time we head home,” he says wearily. Connor looks at him, and only now does Hank realise how bone-tired the kid looks. He feels a twinge of guilt, even though he knows the work they did today is going to shave off hours of what Connor had been planning on doing on his own.

Connor glances at his watch and lets out a surprised sound, and then stretches his arms up, arching his back.

“Guess you’re right,” he says sheepishly, and begins to gather up his things. He pauses to hover in Hank’s doorway.

“Go grab your things, I’ll wait,” Hank says kindly, and Connor nods, disappearing towards the cubicles.

Hank pulls on his coat stiffly, his back and shoulders aching from sitting at his desk for so long. He spares a thought for Sumo, probably doing a pee dance by the door, and feels like a bad human. He thinks of his fridge, empty, and can’t bear the thought of going grocery shopping this late. If he orders takeout now, it’ll be delivered by the time he’s home.

He’s finishing his order on his phone when Connor pops his head around the door.

“Ready,” Connor says cheerfully, donned up in a thick-looking parka and a wool scarf that looks hand-knitted.

Hank wonders if he did it himself, or if he has someone in his life who gifts him knitted goods to keep him warm. It’s seems like something you’d give to a lover, Hank thinks, and tries to pretend the thought doesn’t send a surge of envy - or perhaps it’s jealousy - through him.

They walk to the elevator together, and ride down in silence, both of them too exhausted to talk.

The cold night air is brisk, making Hank feel a little more awake.

Connor hesitates on the icy steps, looking down the street where a lone car is parked.

“Thank you,” he says softly, jingling something in his coat pocket. “I know you didn’t have to do this.”

Hank shakes his head, tucking his coat closed against the wind.

“It’s my responsibility to make sure my employees don’t work themselves to death,” he says with a wry smile.

Connor huffs, and pulls his hand out of his pocket, holding keys. He gestures towards the car.

“Can I drive you home at least?”

Hank hesitates. It’s a tempting offer, but he likes the short walk to his building. And he’s not sure he can be alone with Connor in a cramped space and not do something monumentally disastrous in his exhaustion-addled state.

“That’s alright,” he says, offering the kid a smile. “It’s a short walk and it’ll wake me up a little. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he adds, giving Connor’s shoulder a squeeze.

Connor looks like he’s about to argue, but then seems to let it got.

“Alright. Good night, Mr. Anderson,” he says, voice soft, and something in Hank shifts.

“For Christ’s sake, call me Hank,” he says, a little exasperated. “And good night, Connor,” he adds, and the pleased smile Connor gives him warms him to the core.

He makes sure Connor makes it to his car safely, and then waves as he drives by, before starting his lonely walk home.

 

 

 

 

The next morning Connor wakes up from a deep, dreamless sleep, feeling more well-rested than he has in days. He has enough time before work that he takes a rare detour to a bakery, where he picks himself a cheese-laden croissant. He hesitates at the counter, and then orders two coffees, black, one with two sugars, to go.

At work he sets his things at his desk and peers at Reed.

“Is Mr. Anderson in yet?” He asks, and Reed looks at him up and down.

“I’ll give you a tip, because clearly you need all the help you can get,” Reed says snidely. “The Boss doesn’t like to be bothered before his first cup of coffee, and he hasn’t been out of his office yet. Whatever it is, I suggest you wait until lunch, or email him.”

With that Reed hunches over his computer, and Connor figures that’s the extent of his wisdoms.

He heads to Mr. Anderson’s- to _Hank’s_ office and knocks lightly on the door. He hesitates when there’s a barked “what?” from the other side, and then enters with caution.

His boss looks up at him, and Connor’s relieved to see he doesn’t look tired despite their late night. The look of irritation seems to melt away when Connor steps inside, and he holds up the sugared coffee, closing the door behind him.

“Sir, I brought you a coffee,” he says, setting the cup on the desk.

Hank stares at the cup, and then reaches for it slowly.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, holding it with both hands.

There’s an awkward pause, and Connor shifts on his feet.

“I figured it would save you a fight with the coffee machine,” he says awkwardly. To his relief it draws a laugh from Hank, who also seems to relax a little as he sits back in his chair.

“Well, I do appreciate being spared the humiliation,” Hank says, and Connor smiles, relieved.

When he sits down at his own desk, there’s a giddy feeling inside him, and he can’t quite stop smiling.

 

The next week Connor notices that Hank leaves more or less on time, and he realises it must be because it’s his week to parent. Connor muses on the fact that he never noticed the pattern before, especially as Hank seems to be on a slightly more jovial mood. He also gives Connor pointed, stern looks every time he leaves, and Connor hides bashfully behind his screen.

He still works late on some nights, but not as often, the project now back on track. He even joins Markus, North, and some of the others from their floor for after work drinks one evening, and though he mostly sits quietly by the sidelines while North loudly complains about their clients (to Markus’s disapproving amusement), he finds that he enjoys his coworkers’ company.

There’s a pretty blonde girl who introduces herself as Chloe and makes a valiant effort at drawing Connor into the conversation, and Connor appreciates the gesture and does his best to participate. He thinks she might be flirting with him, but he’s always been useless at reading women, his interests resting elsewhere.

He gives a thought to Hank, and their shared evening at the office, and something tight curls in the pit of his belly. He wonders if he imagined it all after all, the tension when Hank had grabbed his wrist, the way he’d looked at Connor when Connor had realised he’d been playing with his pen.

He keeps bringing Hank coffee. Not every morning, and not always from the bakery - sometimes when Connor makes himself a cup in the break room first thing in the morning, he’ll bring one to Hank. Each time it’s met with a look of almost desperate gratitude, and each time Connor leaves with a smile on his face and a flutter in his chest.

He hasn’t had a crush since he was a teenager. He’d acknowledged his attraction to his boss from day one, in a casual, aesthetic way. But it’d since slowly grown into an irritating infatuation, something he hasn’t experienced in years and finds as aggravating as he does titillating. He knows it’s pointless, can’t ever imagine Hank responding to him, but it’s nice to have something like that in his life.

 

Thanksgiving week arrives, and with it the hollow ache of loneliness that the holiday season always brings.

Connor listens to his coworkers talk about their plans. Some are taking a few days to fly to see relatives, some are making exasperated but ultimately fond jokes about dinners with their family, others eagerly talking about the plans they have with their friends.

Connor ducks out of the break room and somewhat pathetically finishes his lunch by the photocopiers, copying papers while he eats.

“I see we’ve progressed from overtime into working through our breaks.”

Connor startles and turns around to face Hank, who’s wearing an amused look. Connor wipes a leaf of lettuce from the corner of his mouth and clears his throat.

“It was… loud in the break room,” he says lamely.

“Uhhu,” Hank says, moving to the copier next to Connor. He’s not wearing his suit jacket, and Connor finds his gaze drawn to Hank’s exposed forearms, thick and hairy. He swallows and looks away, willing his blush away.

They stand quietly as the machines whirr and spit out warm paper, the scent of ink filling the small room.

“Any plans for Thanksgiving?” Hank asks politely, and Connor suppresses a tired sigh.

“Take-out and Lifetime movies,” Connor says in a tone he hopes conveys that he’d rather not discuss the subject.

He feels Hank’s eyes on him.

“Same,” Hank says eventually. “My son is with my wife this year, so it’s just me and Sumo.”

“At least you have a dog,” Connor says dryly, starting to gather his papers. He glances at Hank, who has an odd look on his face.

“Have a good day, sir,” Connor says, throwing his salad container in the trash and heading back to his desk.

 

On Thanksgiving Connor brings home obscene amounts of food from the Chinese down the street, and a mid-range bottle of red that he’s been wanting to try for a while.

Richard calls him like clockwork at 4pm when Connor is in the middle of a thrilling rerun of an _I Survived_ episode. He watches the dramatic re-enactment of a kidnapping while his brother gives him the usual talking to about not calling their parents, about not coming home to visit.

“ _Are you at least flying up for Christmas?_ ” Richard asks, and from his cold tone Connor surmises that he already knows the answer.

“Not unless they apologise,” Connor says equally breezily. “And considering that ultimatum has been in place for five years, I’m not holding my breath,” he adds sarcastically.

“ _They’re not getting any younger._ ”

“God, fuck you, Richard,” Connor sighs, but there’s no real heat behind his words. He and Richard haven’t been close enough in years for him to care enough to get angry.

There’s a silence that stretches for so long that Connor begins to wonder if the call has disconnected. Finally he hears a sigh.

“ _I hear you got a job at Cyber Finance_ ,” Richard says, tone now polite.

Connor grits his teeth. Of course his brother would be interested in the one aspect of his life their parents would approve of.

“Oh you _heard_ , did you? Because we have so many mutual friends,” he drawls.

“ _You don’t have any friends,_ ” Richard says sharply, and Connor’s had enough.

“Stop Googling me,” he snaps, something tight beginning to grow in his chest. He hates these calls, and yet every time he answers them, like he’s a kicked dog who just wants to please.

“ _I wouldn’t have to if you’d occasionally tell me what’s going on with you,_ ” Richard says, using his “I’m the older sibling here” tone - the half hour difference that always made all the difference to their parents.

“Maybe if you acted like you gave a damn I’d talk to you,” Connor says, and hangs up before the lump in his throat has a chance to well up into an ugly sob.

He kicks a throw pillow off his sofa, feeling childish, and then draws in a few deep breaths until the tightness in his chest loosens.

He’s well on his way to demolishing the lo mein when his phone vibrates. He considers ignoring it, but doesn’t think Richard would stoop to reaching out to him so quickly.

He doesn’t recognise the number, and the message preview doesn’t give him any hint, so he slides his phone unlocked.

“ _Sorry to bother you on a holiday - can you forward me the email with the new draft for the Kamski presentation? No rush if you’re busy._  
_\- Hank Anderson_ ”

Connor rushes to his computer to access his work account, forwarding the email quickly. He taps out a text.

“ _Sent! And no worries - I’m spending quality time with cheesy true crime shows._  
_\- Connor_ ”

He puts his phone down and pours himself a glass of wine, making a pleased hum when it turns out worth its price.

After a few minute his phone buzzes again, and he picks it up with curiosity.

“ _Sounds thrilling. Sumo and I are watching a hockey match from last week. Lacks some of the thrill when you know how it ends. I wonder if that applies to true crime. That would defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it?_  
_\- Hank_ ”

Connor laughs, setting his glass down so he can reply.

“ _Even if you’ve heard of the cases it’s always an experience to watch the C-list actors do replays of the crimes. Highly recommended._ ”

Connor tries to ignore the curl of tension in his belly as he waits for Hank’s response. When it arrives, he can’t help but grin.

“ _What channel?_ ”

 

They end up in a near-constant back-and-forth over several episodes of low-production quality shows. Connor smiles until his cheeks hurt, the wine warming him as much as Hank’s barely contained sarcasm about the stupidity of certain criminals or the audacity of a particularly salacious host.

He’s nearly through his bottle when he gets a stupid idea.

“ _Can I see your god?_ ”

He squints at his screen.

_Shit._

“ _*Dog. Sorry, wine._ ”

He sees flickering dots appear to indicate Hank is typing. They stop. Then start again, and then stop. Connor’s stomach tightens.

Then comes through a picture of a huge St Bernard, draped over what Connor realises with a thrill must be Hank’s lap, clad in grey sweatpants. He tries to imagine Hank wearing them instead of his suit, and maybe a worn-soft tee shirt, and he sighs softly.

Hank sends him a message:

“ _Sorry, hard to get a good picture when he’s playing lap dog. White or red?_ ”

Connor stares at the message for a while before his brain catches up.

“ _He looks like a very good boy. If you ever need a sitter, I’m available._ ”

He sends the message, hoping he’s not coming off as weird. Then he adds.

“ _Red. A perfectly adequate bottle of mid-range Merlot._ ”

In return he gets a blurry picture of a bottle of Corona, resting on Sumo’s back.

“ _A man of sophistication,_ ” he sends, and gets back a cry-laughing emoji.

Connor snorts. Then a second message arrives.

“ _Hey, it keeps the existential dread at bay._ ”

Huh.

“ _I know the feeling. My brother called to remind me of my black sheep status._ ”

He hovers his finger of the send-button, wondering if it’s too personal to send his boss. He downs his glass empty, and then brushes his finger over the screen, almost like it could be an accident when he hits send.

He sets his phone down, hands suddenly sweaty, and heads to the bathroom, unable to sit here and wait to see whether Hank replies - or see the arrival of a message chastising him for oversharing.

When he checks his phone, there’s no reply. He tries not to feel humiliated as he begins to clean up the leftovers, pouring the last of the wine into his glass and tossing the bottle in the recycling bin.

He’s trying to choose a book to take to bed when his phone buzzes again, and he closes his eyes as he unlocks the screen.

“ _Family’s the worst, I’ll vouch for that. Don’t you listen to him._ ”

Connor feels something like relief spread in him, and he heads to his bedroom, a book under his arm, the wine glass and his phone in his hands.

“ _I’m about to turn in. Thank you for the company, sir._ ”

The last reply he gets reads,

“ _Don’t mention it, kid. Most pleasant Thanksgiving I’ve had in a while. I’ll see you tomorrow._ ”

 

 

 

The next morning Hank wakes up earlier than usual and makes himself stand in a long line at a coffee shop between home and work. At the office he makes a detour to Connor's desk and sets down a hot, sugary latte in front of the kid.

Connor looks up at him with bleary eyes, blinking at him owlishly. His hair is a mess. Usually combed back tidily, now it’s a ruffled mess, the usual cowlick even unrulier than normally.

“Figured you’d need it,” Hank says, amused.

Connor slides the cup closer, opening the lid and inhaling deep.

“God, that’s good,” he says, and takes a long, blissful drink, lashes fluttering.

“Well, next time less wine on a work night,” Hank says, trying not to think filthy thoughts when Connor moans softly as he swallows down the coffee.

He hears Reed hiss something at Connor, but he doesn’t stick around to find out what it was. He feels out of sorts as he settles in his office, an oddly pleasant tightness pulling at his heart.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good god this got fluffy. I originally meant to post this in time for Christmas, and then, uh. life happened.

The deadline draws close, and the whole office is in a frenzy. The overtime numbers alone are enough to give Hank heartburn, and he makes sure Markus is on top of reports to make sure it’s money well spent.

Connor seems to make it a personal crusade that his team’s performance is flawless, and Hank begins to worry once again. The kid looks more worn out by the day, and Hank wonders if he’s getting any sleep at all. In addition by Wednesday he’s developed a wracking cough that Hank can occasionally hear all the way to his office.

Friday arrives, and everyone’s scrambling to make sure every file and presentation slide and account profile is ready to be submitted.

Hank is kept busy in meetings that threaten to suck the will to live out of him, and by noon he’s craving for coffee.

Connor is in the break room, using the electric kettle to make tea.

“Ready for today?” Hank asks as he enters, and pauses in his tracks when Connor turns to face him.

“Jesus Christ, kid…” He says gently.

Connor just looks at him, looking a little loopy. His cheeks and nose and forehead are glowing red, his eyes watery, and the rest of his face is ashen, with dark circles under his eyes.

“I’m fine,” Connor sniffles stuffily, dipping a tea bag into his cup and adding a dollop of honey from the communal cabinet. Hank can see the slight tremor in his hands.

“Just a little bout of cold,” Connor says, and he sounds absolutely miserable. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“You look like shit,” Hank says sternly. “Do you have a temperature?”

Connor shrugs, and Hank barely even hesitates before reaching a hand to Connor’s brow. He draws it back quickly, concern growing.

“You’re like a furnace. Go home,” he says, using his tone that always get Cole to quit his tantrums.

Connor shakes his head, and then grabs the counter to stabilise himself. “No, I can-” he pauses, and then sneezes loudly, twice, turning his face into his shoulder.

“I’m fine,” he says again, and Hank gives him a dubious look.

“You’re gonna infect the whole office,” Hank grumbles, taking a step back when Markus enters.

“Hank? Mr. Kamski’s calling, he’s asking to speak to you.”

“We’re not done,” Hank says, pointing at Connor. “Go sit at your desk and try not to sneeze on anyone.”

He’s halfway out the door when he hears the clatter of porcelain. He turns just in time to see Connor slumped over the counter, and he strides over to him, grabbing him under the arms when Connor’s knees seem to give out and he crumples to the floor, nearly hitting his head against the cabinets if not for Hank softening his fall.

Connor’s eyes are closed, but he opens them soon, blinking slowly up at Hank.

“Oops,” he says weakly.

“I’ll call an ambulance,” Markus says, reaching for his phone.

Connor jolts up, and then slumps back against Hank again.

“No! I’m good, I just got dizzy. I’m not going to the hospital!”

Hank growls, pushing Connor up until he’s sitting, back propped against the cabinets.

“You’re going home though, that’s a damn order,” he rumbles, and Connor looks at him, his eyes a little glassy.

“...yeah, okay,” Connor finally says, and starts to push himself up to his feet. He staggers, and Hank has to hold him up, steadying him by his shoulders.

Markus gives them a skeptical look.

“We can’t let him drive like that.”

Hank thinks about the line of meetings he has in his calendar for the day.

“I’ll drive him. I’ll take a taxi back,” he says decisively, and starts leading Connor out to his desk. He looks over his shoulder at Markus. “Tell Kamski I’ll call him in about an hour. I’ll be back in time for the board meeting.”

He watches Connor fumble for his coat and bag, and then shepherds him into the elevator and out of the building.

“You don’t need to do this, I can just take a taxi,” Connor protests weakly when Hank opens the passenger side door to his car and points.

“I don’t trust you to not just wander into traffic in this shape,” Hank says sharply, and Connor has the good sense to look chagrined. He gives Hank his address, and Hank navigates the route in lunch-time traffic, trying to keep his attention on the road while following the GPS and glancing at Connor to make sure he stays conscious.

Connor’s half asleep when Hank parks in front of his apartment building. They don’t talk as they make their way up to the fourth floor, and Connor hands him his key with a shaking hand.

“Give me your coat, I’ll hang it up while you get yourself out of those clothes and into bed,” Hank orders, and Connor, for once, obeys without objections.

Hank gives him a moment to get decent, trying not to snoop as he stands in Connor’s living room. It’s tidy and nicely furnished, and one wall is taken over by a bookshelf stuffed full of books and assorted knick-knacks.

There’s a take-out menu on the coffee table, and Hank peers at it before placing a call. Ramen should sink into the kid easily enough, he decides.

He pokes his head into what he assumes is Connor’s bedroom, and finds him sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing flannel pajama pants and his shirt and tie.

“Don’t make me undress you,” Hank says lightly, and Connor jolts out of his daze, staring at him.

“Not in this shape,” he says, and judging by the way starts to struggle with his tie, Hank’s not entirely sure he’s realised he’s spoken out loud.

For one insane moment Hank considers helping Connor with the tie and his shirt. He can imagine undoing the white, pearly buttons, pushing the cotton down to expose Connor’s flushed skin.

He shivers, and pulls back into the living room.

“You got any medicine around here?” He calls, and after a moment Connor’s stuffy voice answers.

“Bathroom cabinet.”

Hank finds digital thermometer and some ibuprofen. He fills up a glass from the kitchen with cool water and brings them to Connor, who has finally gotten himself mostly under the covers. He’s propped up against pillows, wearing a light-blue tee-shirt with a logo that Hank doesn’t recognise.

“This is embarrassing,” Connor says as he accepts the medicine, downing a pill with the water.

Hank gives him a look, and Connor turns his face down, staring at his lap.

“You need to give yourself a damn break, kid,” Hank says softly. “No one is going to judge you for taking time off when you’re in this shape.”

Connor stays mulishly quiet, fiddling with the bedding.

Hank sighs. “I was joking before about you working yourself to an early grave, but this is not healthy. Literally.”

Before Connor can reply, the doorbell rings.

“Don’t move,” Hank says sternly, and gets up to pay the delivery man. The ramen smells good, a little spicy.

In the bedroom Connor is looking at the thermometer. He looks up when Hank enters, and shows the reading to him, smiling sheepishly.

“Oh, for cryin’ out loud,” Hank says and grabs it from him, putting it on the table. “I fucking told you,” he growls.

“I’m sorry,” Connor says miserably. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.” He looks so thoroughly devastated that Hank finds it hard to be truly angry with him.

“Just eat,” he sighs, handing Connor the styrofoam container.

Connor wolfs down the ramen, and Hank wonders if he’s been eating properly lately at all. He finds his heart clenching at the thought of Connor neglecting himself for the sake of the company to the point where he’d fallen ill.

“Promise me you’ll take it easier from now on,” Hank says gently, resting his palm on Connor’s duvet-covered shin.

Connor pauses, staring at his hand, before he swallows loudly, his throat bobbing.

“I promise I’ll _try_ ,” he finally says. Hank knows it’s the most he’ll get out of the kid for now.

He watches Connor eat (and blow his nose loudly in between spoonfuls), and when he’s done he gathers up the trash.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, watching Connor burrow into the blankets.

“You’re not staying, are you?” Connor asks, alarmed. “I mean, you’re welcome to,” he adds, faltering a little. “But-”

Hank shakes his head. “Much as I’d like to stay and make sure you don’t accidentally brain yourself on the way to the bathroom or something, I have to head back.” He grabs Connor’s drained glass. ”I’ll bring you more water.”

He disposes of the trash and fills up Connor’s glass, and then grabs a new box of tissues from the kitchen counter.

When he returns to the bedroom, he’s surprised to find Connor out cold and fast asleep.

He sets the glass on the bedside table, and then hesitates for a moment, feeling suddenly like he’s intruding.

He tugs the covers up carefully, making sure Connor is coconeed inside the duvet, and then turns to draw the curtains shut.

In the dim light filtering through the blue curtains, Connor looks deathly pale. His breathing is clear and deep though, and the flush on his cheeks seems to have gone down a little.

Hank lets out a long exhale, dragging his hand across his face.

“Christ,” he mutters, feeling suddenly drained. He takes a step towards the door, and then pauses, looking at Connor’s face. Asleep he looks a little less boyish, features relaxed, his dark lashes fanning over his pale cheeks. Hank swallows, and steps closer, reaching out a hand.

He brushes a stray lock of hair off Connor’s damp brow, the pads of his fingers ghosting on overheated skin. He snatches his hand back, suddenly fully aware of the boundary he’s just stomped all over, and feels his own face grow hot.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and then feels like a complete idiot.

“I’ll just-” He stops, Connor giving no signs that he’s aware of Hank’s presence.

“Get well,” Hank says quietly, and leaves, shutting the bedroom door behind him.

 

He makes it back in time just before the board meeting begins. He delivers his own report and listens to the others, but his mind wanders back to Connor, asleep and vulnerable.

The tips of his fingers tingle with the memory of Connor’s warm skin.

 

No good deed goes unpunished. Hank is struck down over the weekend, and has to take Monday off completely, his head pounding and his fever high. He hasn’t felt so miserable in years.

On Tuesday he feels well enough to manage some work from his home office, Sumo curled up over his feet. He consumes a gallon of tea and over the counter meds, and goes to bed before eight. He wakes up at some point to his phone chiming, but he turns to his side, his head swimming, and goes back to sleep.

The fever is gone on Wednesday morning, and so is the stuffiness. He fumbles for his phone and finds that he can still make it to work on time, and decides to make the effort.

There’s also a few texts from Connor.

“ _Are you away from office because I got you sick?_ ”

Fifteen minutes later there’d been another message.

“ _Sorry, it’s none of my business._ ”

And then a few minutes later one more.

“ _Get well soon._ ”

Hank groans, throwing his phone on the bed. Sumo looks up at him, tail giving a few happy wags.

“You’ll have to be alone today again,” Hank tells the dog apologetically. “Gotta go back to work.”

Sumo just lets out a low bark and flops over onto his side, tongue lolling out.

“Yeah, you don’t care,” Hank sighs, giving him a few belly rubs before he heads into the bathroom.

The hot shower feels like heaven after days of sweating in a feverish daze, and when he steps out and wraps himself in a towel, he feels almost normal.

He trims his beard and ties his hair back and by the time he’s dressed and had his breakfast some of the symptoms have returned. He decides it’s worth the suffering though, the beginnings of cabin fever already creeping up on him.

He checks himself in the mirror in the entry hall. His eyes are a little bloodshot and his skin is still on the pale side, and his nose is red and stuffy, but he deems himself presentable.

 

The moment Connor catches sight of him he clambers up and disappears into the break room. Hank leaves his door open, prepared for Connor’s usual brand of anxious word vomit, though he’d really rather skip it today.

Connor enters with a steaming cup of coffee and sets it down in front of Hank, and then stands there quietly.

Hank raises an eyebrow, and Connor bites his lip.

“I’m sorry,” Connor says meekly. “I did infect you, didn’t I?”

Hank snorts, reaching for the coffee.

“It happens. Don’t sweat it. I haven’t been sick in years anyway, I guess it was about due.”

Connor still hesitates, and then moves to shut the door.

“I’d also like to apologise for last week,” he says, his hand gripping the back of a chair until his knuckles turn white. “It was very unprofessional of me.”

Hank swallows, taking off his glasses.

“Connor, it’s fine. It was the least I could do, considering the work you’ve been doing here.”

Connor offers him a small smile, nodding.

Hank shuffles some of his papers, aching for something to distract himself with.

“Having said that, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t put yourself in that shape again,” he says, not quite looking at Connor. “You had me pretty worried for a moment there,” he adds softly.

When he looks up, there’s that blush again, high on Connor’s cheeks, still as attractive as ever. Hank is starting to admit that he rather likes being the cause of it.

“Yes, sir,” Connor says, smiling at him, and Hank feels a whole different kind of heat sparking in his gut.

 

November turns to December. Someone from the administrative side brings in a fake Christmas tree and decorates it with chocolate coins and fairy lights. Hank finds it tacky, but the coins disappear one by one, and Hank notices it turn into a small game, who can steal them without being seen.

He and Connor have kept occasionally exchanging text messages, though Hank senses that they’re both aware of the line they’re tip-toeing. Things still shift, slowly, towards something Hank thinks could be friendship. It’s not what he wants, but he knows it’s the most he can have.

Christmas looms close. Hank has agreed to let his ex wife take Cole to visit the grandparents. It stings, not getting to have his son for Thanksgiving or Christmas, but he’s promised both next year, which soothes the ache.

He has Cole the second week of the month, and leaves a little early every day to pick his son up from school. They go Christmas shopping, Hank unabashedly spoiling his kid, treating him to hot chocolate and skating and anything that Cole dares to ask. He usually tries to keep himself from giving in to Cole’s wishes too much, but he’s feeling sentimental and indulgent.

They’re in a bookstore, Cole browsing through comics, and Hank spots a book for people looking to buy their first dog. He smiles, thinking of Connor’s desire for a dog of his own, and buys it on a whim.

When the cashier asks if he wants it wrapped, he nods, and feels oddly embarrassed as he takes the present and puts it in the plastic bag with Cole’s comic.

“Who is the present for?” Cole asks, hanging on to Hank’s sleeve as they head towards a crowded family restaurant.

Hank hums, considering his words.

“Just a friend, kiddo,” he says, ruffling Cole’s hair. He ignores the tightness in his chest as they sit down to eat.

 

Connor has always hated Christmas parties. Work or otherwise. But Markus had made it clear that everyone is expected to attend.

However, there’s an Ugly Christmas Sweater competition with the main prize being a state-of-the-art coffee maker, and Connor has his eyes set on it. He spends days online looking for the most hideous yet workplace appropriate knitwear, and comes up with green number that has glittery pompom garlands snaking around it, topped off with a malformed rendering of a Santa.

Gavin retches at the sight of it, and North nearly falls onto her knees from laughing at him. Connor beams happily, and accepts a mug of mulled wine from Markus, who gives him a slightly bug-eyed look at the sight of his sweater.

He ends up still losing bitterly to someone from sales wearing a vomit-green faux-fur thing with blinking lights. Connor thinks he could’ve won, if not for the fact that the fur monstrosity also plays tinny renditions of most hated Christmas hits. Not long after the prizes are dealt (and Connor is still quite pleased with the three packages of expensive coffee beans his sweater earned him) and both of them get ushered out of their sweaters, and Reed loudly announces that he’s taking his responsibility as the destroyer of knitwear very seriously.

 

Hank shows up late, after the secret Santa when everyone is well on their way to good-natured intoxication.

“Hello,” Connor says as he sidles up to his boss, and Hank gives him a warm smile, holding his own mug of mulled wine.

“Enjoying yourself?” Hank asks, and Connor finds himself relaxing a little, comfortable around Hank.

“Yes. Though I’m still mourning the fact that the coffee machine slipped between my fingers,” Connor says mournfully.

Hank laughs, patting him gently on the back.

“There’s always next year,” he says encouragingly. “You have a whole year to find the ugliest sweater on God’s green earth.”

Hank sips his drink, giving Connor an odd glance.

“Do I have something on my face?” Connor asks, feeling a little restless under Hank’s gaze.

Hank startles, his gaze flickering towards the ceiling and back. “No, uh. Just. Sad I didn’t get to see you in the ugly sweater,” Hank says, voice a little stuttery.

Connor laughs, nudging at Hank’s side. “I’m sure someone here has pictures to humiliate me with later, I’ll send you one if I track them down.”

They’re happy to remain by the tree, now robbed completely of its coins, talking quietly about nothing important, watching others mill around. Connor feels pleasantly buzzed and warm, unsure if the heat is from the alcohol or Hank’s closeness. Sometimes one of them shifts, and their arms touch, a fleeting, tantalising connection that Connor wishes he could have more of.

North appears out of nowhere, staring at them with an accusatory look.

“Aren’t you going to kiss?” She asks, and Connor feels Hank grow tense by his side.

“Excuse me?” Hank says, voice hard. Connor gapes at North, who gives them a long-suffering look and points up.

Connor and Hank tilt their heads to see the mistletoe someone has tied to the ceiling where they’re standing. Connor lets his eyes trail along the office, and only then does he notice that there are a handful of other similar traps hung up in various places.

Connor feels his face heat up, and he takes a step to the side, trying to stammer an objection. Unfortunately a bunch of other people have noticed they’ve been caught, everyone giving good-natured encouragement that Connor doesn’t know how to escape tactfully.

Connor realises it’s mostly about everyone wanting to see their CFO show a more human side, and that Connor is just collateral.

If he’s honest with himself, if not for the crowd he’d happily do it.

Hank raises his hands placatingly, and there’s a pink tinge on his cheeks.

“I don’t really think Connor finds this at all-”

Connor reaches up on his toes and presses a quick, chaste kiss to Hank’s cheek, the bristles of Hank’s beard tingling on his lips.

North pumps her fist in the air and hisses “Yes!” There are jeers and cheers around them, someone jostling Connor’s shoulder like he’s just proven his bravery. Their colleagues disperse, leaving them alone again, and Connor stands there mutely, his face burning.

Hank is staring at him, a poleaxed look on his face, his blue eyes wide.

“Huh,” Hank says, and then falls silent again. The corner of his mouth twitches up.

Connor offers him a shy smile.

 

Eventually the party begins to die down. Hank has to withdraw to his office to take an overseas call, and Connor lingers behind to help clean up some of the mess left behind, despite the cleaners’ objections.

Reed staggers out last, helped out of the bathroom by Josh, who waves a goodbye as he wrestles Reed towards the elevators.

Connor is picking up bits of garland when Hank emerges from his office, wearing his wool coat. He gives Connor a surprised look and glances at the clock.

“Time to head home, don’t you think?” Hank asks, looking at him expectantly.

“I feel bad about the mess,” Connor says, glancing around. There’s still a lot to clean, but the cleaners are making good time.

Hank steps close to him and grabs his hand, still full of glittering garland.

“That’s enough, Connor,” he says, voice gentle but firm. Connor swallows and nods, dropping the pieces in the nearest wastebasket.

Hank waits while Connor gets his coat, and together they leave, the empty building humming with silence after the noise of the party.

Outside it’s snowing, fat flakes falling from the black night sky. They pause on the steps to admire the veil of white draped over the streets. Everything feels muted, and Connor imagines he can almost hear the snow fall.

“Do you think we’ll have a white Christmas?” Hank muses, his voice a pleasant rumble in the silence.

Connor only hums, blinking when snowflakes catch in his lashes.

He glances towards Hank and sees him looking at him, a strange expression on his face.

Connor wipes a melting flake off his own cheek, turning towards Hank.

“What?” He asks, and Hank startles. For one breathless moment Connor thinks he’s about to touch him, but then Hank pulls back, shaking his head.

“Nothing. Have a good night, Connor,” he says, and then he reaches out and brushes something off Connor’s shoulder.

“Sir-” Connor says, voice a little breathy. He jolts forwards, grabbing Hank’s wrist before he has time to pull away completely.

It feels like time stands still. Connor stares at Hank, his heart pounding in his chest, waiting for something awful to happen. For a moment there’s nothing but the sound of his heart-beat and the silence of the snowy city around them.

Then he sees Hank swallow, sees something shift in his blue eyes, and then Hank takes a step forwards. A step towards Connor. He’s so close Connor could count his lashes, can smell the scent of his aftershave.

The kiss, when it comes, is the easiest thing Connor has ever felt. Hank’s mouth slots against his, and he presses himself against Hank’s chest, curling his arms around Hank. When Hank wraps him into an embrace Connor feels something in him go a little weak. It’s fine - he sinks against Hank, humming softly into the kiss as Hank’s tongue slides against his, the taste of mulled wine spreading in his mouth.

Hank breaks the kiss first, pushing Connor away gently, just enough that he can look him in the eye. Connor smiles, as sweet as he can, knowing that he has a stupid, dopey look on his face.

Hank lets out a soft sound and cups Connor’s cheek in his gloved palm, brushing his thumb over Connor’s flushed cheek.

“Oops,” Connor whispers, and Hank laughs, low and breathless.

“Should’ve known you were out to seduce me from that first day in the elevator,” he says, tucking Connor’s unruly curl of hair back.

“I’m a walking disaster-zone,” Connor laughs. “You only have yourself to blame if that’s your type.”

Hank slides his hands down Connor’s back, resting them on the dip of his spine. Holding him close, so close Connor thinks he could easily slip inside Hank’s coat and keep himself warm against Hank’s bulk.

The thought sparks a fire in him. He nudges his hips against Hank’s and grasps Hank’s coat lapels, tugging lightly. He presses his lips to the warm skin of Hank’s throat, exhaling warmth.

“Do you… want to take me home?” He whispers, and feels Hank shiver against him.

“The things I want to do to you right now shouldn’t even be spoken of near the office building,” Hank growls, and the gravelly tone of his voice sends a thrill through Connor. Hank’s hand slides a little lower, palming at Connor through his thick winter coat, a frustrating tease of what could be.

“Sir… Hank,” Connor pleads, pressing a hungry kiss to Hank’s mouth, arching against him before pulling back. He takes Hank’s hand in his, squeezing as he looks at Hank imploringly. In the cold winter night Hank looks larger than life - the silver of his hair and beard speckled with snow, the blue of his eyes so bright against the shadows of the city. Something in Connor trills at the thought that he can have all that tonight. And maybe for longer.

“Yeah,” Hank says, voice a little strained. “I- let’s walk. I want to-” he purses his lips together, and Connor is delighted to see a flush rise on his cheeks.

“You look nice, here in the snow,” Hank blurts out, and then reaches awkwardly to pull the back of his coat up, hunkering down into it. Connor beams, warmth welling in his chest.

“You’ll like me better when I’m naked,” he says playfully, feeling bolder now. It startles a laugh out of Hank.

“Come on, you menace,” Hank grumbles, but there’s a smile on his face that reaches his eyes. Connor can barely look away, like there’s an enchantment over him, and he nearly trips down the stairs when Hank begins to lead him towards home. Hank’s laughter echoes in the empty street, a sound Connor presses into memory and tucks in his heart.

 

The walk is quiet. There are few cars on the roads this late, the streets slick and covered in a light sheen of white. Connor has his arm looped around Hank’s, and Hank is torn between the desire to hold his hand, and wrap his arm around Connor and tug him close.

“Here we are,” Hank says, leading Connor to the door to his building. “You sure about this?”

Connor gives him one of those soft smiles of his, the kind that make Hank feel a little dopey.

“I’m pretty sure,” Connor murmurs, pushing the wide glass door open.

In the elevator Hank removes his gloves gloves and cups Connor’s face in his hands, kissing him gently. Connor’s skin is cool, his hair and lashes beaded with water from melted snow, and Hank feels his breath catch in his chest.

He pulls Connor along down the hallway and to his door, unlocking it quickly and shoving Connor inside. Connor laughs, shedding his coat on the floor and throwing himself at Hank.

“Easy,” Hank huffs, leaning back against the door and hugging Connor close, pressing kisses along his jawline.

There’s the scrape of nails along the floor, and then Connor yelps, falling against Hank.

“Down, Sumo, for fuck’s sake,” Hank bustles, disentangling himself from Connor long enough to drag Sumo off Connor and into the office.

“Wait!” Connor cries, looking crestfallen. Hank stares at him, Sumo clawing at the door behind him.

“I wanted to say hi,” Connor says meekly. Hank groans, pushing himself off the door and pulling Connor into a kiss.

“I promise, you can say hi to him when I’m through with you,” he mutters, and Connor does a delicious little shiver. “If we let him out to play now, he’s never going to wind down.”

Connor makes a reluctant sound, but the hand groping at Hank’s ass tells him he’s won this round.

“Come on, let me get you a drink,” Hank murmurs, pressing a kiss to Connor’s brow. “Don’t want you catching a cold again.”

“Ha, ha,” Connor says dryly, following him and taking a seat by the kitchen island. Hank pours them each a glass of white wine and settles against the island, watching Connor take a drink. The mood has shifted a little, to something calm, quiet. Hank realises he wouldn’t mind having this view permanently. To have someone to share his home with, someone to spend his evenings with. And he’d be lying if he claimed the thought of being able to admire Connor’s pretty face doesn’t feel like an added bonus.

“You have a nice home,” Connor says, looking around the open kitchen.

“My ex wife decorate it,” Hank shrugs. “It’s a bit big for one. Nice when Cole is around though.”

“Well, you’ve seen mine. Perfect for a lone bachelor who survives mostly on takeout,” Connor laughs.

Hank hums, studying Connor, who seems to get a little shy under Hank’s gaze.

“What?” Connor says, taking a gulp of his wine.

Hank sets his glass down and walks around the island. Connor follows him with his eyes, pushing his glass away nervously.

“What?” Connor insists, voice a little strained. Hank leans down and touches Connor’s chin with the tips of his fingers, guiding him into the kiss.

It’s a marvel how pliant Connor goes, how starved for touch he seems. He presses into Hank’s caresses, wraps his arms around Hank’s neck and kisses him back like his life depends on it.

It’s easy then to coax him off his seat, up and onto the granite counter, to pry his thighs apart so Hank can settle between them.

“I want you,” Hank murmurs, kissing Connor’s neck, nipping gently at the soft skin. Connor whimpers, his hands bunched in Hank’s shirt, trying to pull him even closer.

“Here?” Connor asks, his voice a little breathless. Hank has to kiss him again, his fingers going to Connor’s buttons, beginning to undo them.

“Mm. Right here. Bedroom’s about five minutes away,” Hank says, and Connor laughs, giving him a playful shove. His laughter turns into a gasp when Hank presses a palm against his crotch, massaging gently.

“Oh… Okay, that’s…” Connor stutters, his eyes fluttering closed. “Here, wherever, you can do me on the floor if you want,” he pants, shifting his hips to press into Hank’s touch.

“I’m not that young,” Hank huffs, undoing Connor’s belt and zipper. He slides his hand in Connor’s boxers and curls his hand around Connor’s soft cock, stroking it lazily.

“Ah, Hank,” Connor breathes, burying his face against Hank’s neck. Hank feels him snake a hand between them, and he shifts back a little so Connor has room to return the favour.

The clink of his belt buckle is followed by his zipper being undone, and then Connor’s clever hand is groping at him, pushing his boxers down and-

“Oh,” Connor says, jerking back.

Hank chuckles and rocks into Connor’s fist. “Hello, sweetheart,” he says. Connor just stares down, and then up at him, mouth gone a little slack.

“Well, this is going to give me complex,” Connor says a little weakly, giving Hank a stroke that draws out a moan from him.

“No need, baby, you’ve got all I need,” Hank murmurs, beginning to stroke Connor, feeling him begin to swell in his grip.

“Say that again,” Connor says, a blush staining his cheeks.

“Hm? Baby?” Hank says, quirking an eyebrow. “You wanna be my baby?”

Connor lets out a soft whine, nuzzling at Hank’s cheek. “Yes, please,” he says softly, and Hank’s heart skips a beat.

“Oh, honey,” Hank murmurs, rubbing his thumb across the tip of Connor’s cock, feeling the precome beginning to well there. “You’re so fucking sweet on me, aren’t you?” He presses a kiss to Connor’s cheek, placing one hand on the small of Connor’s back. “It’s okay, I’m pretty sweet on you too,” he says quietly, nuzzling behind Connor’s ear.

It becomes more hurried quickly. Connor’s hand on his cock feels amazing, Hank’s gone so long without anyone else touching him. The soft sounds Connor makes when Hank rolls his hand quite so, when he teases at the frenulum and rubs the tip gently go straight to Hank’s dick. He rocks his hips into Connor’s grip, his breath coming in short pants, and soon he’s grunting, gripping Connor tight against him, biting at his neck and then soothing the sting with his tongue.

“I’m not gonna last,” Connor groans, his fingers digging into Hank’s shoulder. “I’m, god, Hank-”

“Fuck, yeah,” Hank grunts, stroking quicker. “I’m there, I’m there baby, come on,” he coaxes, fucking into Connor’s hand, chasing the swell of his orgasm. Connor winds his legs around Hank’s hips, his heels digging into Hank’s buttocks, and he rolls his hips, rutting to the rhythm of Hank’s strokes.

Hank comes first, with a muffled grunt and a shudder that runs through his whole body.

Connor mewls, leaning his upper body against Hank, and Hank doesn’t care when Connor wraps his come-covered fingers around his arm and shudders, spilling over Hank’s hand. Hank keeps stroking him gently, milking him dry, peppering kisses to Connor’s brow.

“That’s it, baby,” he hums, and Connor groans, going lax against him.

They stay like that for a moment, catching their breaths. Hank moves his hand out of Connor’s boxers, and, deeming his shirt a lost cause anyway, wipes himself clean on the front of it.

“Sorry,” Connor mumbles, looking down between them at the stains.

“I’ve got others,” Hank says cheerfully, and leans down for a quick kiss. Connor gives him a loopy smile, and Hank can’t help but return it, feeling something warm glow in his chest.

“You good?” He asks, tucking himself away. He places his palms on the counter on either side of Connor’s hips.

“Very good,” Connor grins, playing with Hank’s collar. “That was nice,” he says, some of that old shyness back. It’s less blustery now, but as endearing as ever.

Connor tucks his open shirt closed, holding it in his fist. “So what now?”

Hank frowns. “Well. You could stay the night?” he says cautiously, uncertain of what Connor means.

“Oh,” Connor says, licking his lips. “That would be- yes, I’d like to. Sleep here. With you,” he stutters, and then makes an anguished sound. “Sorry, yes. I will stay the night,” he laughs, resting his forehead against Hank’s shoulder.

“You meant about work, didn’t you?” Hank says, stroking Connor’s back.

“Yes,” Connor says, voice muffled.

Hank sighs. He was hoping to avoid this at least until tomorrow. He steps away and helps Connor off the island, pulling him by his hand into the living room.

“Let’s talk about that later,” he says firmly, sitting down and tugging Connor down next to him. “We’ll figure it out, don’t worry. Let’s just… enjoy this, hm?”

Connor tucks his feet under him, curling against Hank’s side.

“Alright,” he murmurs, resting his head on Hank’s shoulder.

They sit in silence for a moment, Hank cherishing the warmth and weight of Connor against him.

Then the whining begins.

“Oh, shit, Sumo!” Hank jumps up and hurries to open the office door, and Sumo barrels out, tail thumping against the wall as he runs into the living room, jumping up onto the sofa and shoving himself into Connor’s lap.

“Oh, okay. Hello,” Connor says brightly, putting his hands on Sumo to pet him. Hank rolls his eyes and grabs their wine glasses before joining them, managing to somehow fit himself next to Connor despite his dog’s massive rump being in the way. He watches Connor coo at Sumo, and a thought occurs to him.

“Got any big plans for Christmas?” Hank asks quietly, trying not to grip the stem of his glass too hard, his nerves making his palms a little sweaty.

Connor shrugs, his face scrunched up in a way that Hank shouldn’t find so adorable.

“The usual. Watching true crime shows and drinking wine,” Connor says, laughing a little self-deprecatingly.

Hank drinks his wine, petting Sumo’s back as he hesitates. Then, gathering his courage, he says, “Why do it alone when we could do it together?”

Connor’s hand on Sumo’s coat stills, and he looks up at Hank with wide brown eyes. Then he huffs out a soft laugh, smiling so wide the dimple on his cheek appears, prominent.

“I’d like that,” he says, and Hank lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. He reaches over Sumo and takes Connor’s hand in his, giving it a gentle squeeze.

Hank turns the television on low, some romantic holiday movie with grand gestures of love. Connor keeps petting Sumo, an unbearably soft look on his face.

Hank can’t judge. He suspects he’s wearing the exact same look as he watches Connor, his thumb rubbing circles into Connor’s warm palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/SynTurtle)  
> [Tumblr.](http://roomfullofcunts.tumblr.com/)  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/SynTurtle)  
> [Tumblr.](http://roomfullofcunts.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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